


High Ground

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John uses a little military strategy to finally make a move on Sherlock. For a prompt requesting:</p>
<p>Sherlock and John kissing on the stairs... with John standing on the higher step.</p>
<p>
  <i>The height of the riser only gives John an edge of a couple of inches, not a great gain, but enough to draw a perplexed wrinkle in Sherlock’s brow and force a satisfying upwards tilt to his chin as John peers down at him.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt requesting Sherlock/John ‘height reversal’ – “Sherlock and John kissing on the stairs... with John standing on the higher step.”

 

 

 

 

John is used to it. He has to be by this point in his life.

He learned all too well, from having to hold his own in both schoolyards and war zones, that compensations must be made when a man spends a good portion of his life being looked down upon. Literally.

Between a wickedly quick sense of humor, a fearless penchant for flirting, and a mastery of skills from wielding a scalpel to firing a gun, he’s cultivated enough self-confidence not to be fazed when viewing the world from the obtuse angles imposed by his diminutive size.

That being said, as a soldier John knows that having the high ground provides certain tactical advantages, and more often than not the side that has it also has all of the control. Greater opportunity for a cunning, decimating offense and the security of an impenetrable defense, both ideal for keeping the other side at arm’s length. Both ideal for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

So the casual observer might assume that stalking the streets of London alongside a man who dwarfs him by almost half a foot and a vast number of IQ points would prove too intimidating of an endeavor for John to endure on a regular basis. But, as Sherlock so often points out, casual observers are idiots.

From the grumbled “John, you probably want to shut up now” Sherlock lobbed across John’s bow during that first drugs bust, to the full-blown verbal bombardment rained down on John at Scotland Yard when he dared question the mighty detective’s strategy of leaving an old woman to suffer for hours, there have been plenty of instances when their height difference might have impelled John to cower under Sherlock’s wordy assaults and confrontational gaze.

But from day one John’s not let it trouble him too terribly much. After all, he’s capable of defending himself in a spoken sparring match no matter what elevation the words are coming from.

  
However...

  
... a battle of a different sort is now brewing. In recent days his relationship with Sherlock has become a spot of unrest and the scouting mission of a too-long look here, the brief volley of lingering touches there, the mutual rush and retreat over the demarcation between friendly and intimate is threatening to destabilize the nation of Baker Street.

As much as John knows Sherlock relishes, _requires_ , having the upper hand in most everything he does, barking orders down from his lofty position, head and mind above the masses, John also knows that in matters of the human heart Sherlock is quite hopelessly unsure and outgunned. It's a battlefront on which Sherlock is hesitant to make the opening move.

But Sherlock’s weakness happens to be John’s strength, an advantage just waiting to be pressed.

So one night when these friendly opponents find themselves charging into the foyer of 221B, a neutral zone in its own right between the hostile outside world and the private province of their flat, John decides it’s high time to upset the status quo, declare an intention, address this most untenable state of affairs and break the stalemate.

They’ve just returned from a case, intriguing and solved, and he knows Sherlock’s currently riding his most beloved of highs, unspent energy rolling off of him in palpable waves.

Sherlock’s in front of him, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into his coat pockets. John watches him as Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and unwinds his scarf, all the while crowing about the idiocy of both police and criminal alike. John removes his own gloves, then his coat, and flings it onto the hook near the entrance, his whole body thrumming with fight or flight. _‘It’s now or never, Watson.’_

Sherlock’s been too busy delighting in his own genius to make it to the staircase yet, though he’s closing in fast, so John makes his move, gliding alongside the wall to brush past Sherlock, outflanking him. He sets one foot down in the center of the bottommost tread, his other foot on the next so he can pivot around and settle his weight on the lower step, making a barricade of himself and stopping Sherlock short at the base of the stairs. The height of the riser only gives John an edge of a couple of inches, not a great gain, but enough to draw a perplexed wrinkle in Sherlock’s brow and force a satisfying upwards tilt to his chin as John peers down at him.

Sherlock huffs a quiet, confused sound. “Problem?” he challenges, but as soon as the word leaves him the first sparkling hint of deduction flits through his eyes, recognition that John’s steely gaze and hint of a smile suggest not conflict but, more accurately, _engagement_. Sherlock goes still, his expression leveling into guarded anticipation even as his shoulders rise and fall sharply with a single unsteady breath.

John reaches out his left hand, skates warm fingertips, _slowly_ , featherlight, upward over Sherlock’s right cheekbone, then farther onward, smoothing a fall of dark curls up and back to catch behind Sherlock’s winter-cold ear. John can feel Sherlock’s intense stare, but his own eyes follow the movement of his fingers as they skim around, down, and forward again, past the softness of Sherlock’s earlobe to the hard line of his jaw. John’s thumb darts over, sweeps the harbinger of a kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, which part fleetingly with a quiet inhale.

John’s hand drifts away briefly then returns, the tip of his middle finger touching down lightly on Sherlock’s throat, on the mole he often finds himself staring at with fascination. His finger rests there for a moment before his other fingertips also land against pale skin, fingers sliding one way and thumb the other until his palm joins them on the curve of Sherlock’s neck, very gently laying claim and pulling a shudder from Sherlock’s suddenly rigid frame. Only then does John meet Sherlock’s gaze.

The barest flush of pink flares across Sherlock’s cheekbones as he whispers, more out of reflex than genuine confusion, “John. What–”

The question goes unasked, the answer already in the air between them as John leans forward, leans _down_ , triumph traveling up his spine as Sherlock leans _up_ , victory exploding like a firework as their lips make contact.

It begins not as a clash, a chaotic skirmish, as John had always expected it would, but as something far more nuanced, _gentlemanly_ , a duel, precise brushes of warmth and softness as John’s mouth lazily captures first Sherlock’s bottom lip, then the top, then the bottom again, his thumb delicately stroking Sherlock’s neck. He feels Sherlock’s pulse begin to pound under his hand, the quickening cadence of a battle drum.

John brings his other hand up, his thumb finding the hollow of Sherlock’s throat and forging a tender path down the expanse of skin revealed by Sherlock’s open shirt buttons. When he encounters the first one which hinders his progress, his fingers pluck open the offending button as well as the two that follow. Sherlock’s breath grows rapid, his lips parting readily, encouraging John’s tongue.

John’s right hand slips inside Sherlock’s shirt, fingers curled inward to run firm knuckles slowly down the slope of his chest before unfurling, palm and fingers pressing flat, delving far enough afield to skirt over ribs and back up to thumb across a nipple. Sherlock breathes out what would have become the word “Fuck” if John had allowed all of it to get past his own lips. John’s hand moves upward, still under the cover of Sherlock’s shirt, skimming over a strong shoulder, wrapping around low on the back of Sherlock’s neck under his shirt collar. John’s other hand leaves Sherlock’s throat, slides around to curl into his hair and pull him in closer, arching him back slightly.

Sherlock apparently realizes that he’s still holding his scarf and coat because John hears them land softly on the floor and then Sherlock’s hands are on him, one on the small of his back and one on his waist. He feels them grasp at his clothes for only a moment before they fall away again, reappearing instantly to tug his shirt and jumper out of the way enough to slip underneath.

Sherlock’s thin fingers retain a hint of chill in contrast to John’s warm torso and John sucks in a breath, huffs a laugh against Sherlock’s lips and says, “Cold.” He can feel a smile pull at Sherlock’s mouth.

“You don’t care,” Sherlock murmurs, trying to smother any further chatter with another kiss.

“You’re right. I don’t.” John concedes.

“Of course I’m righ–”

John briefly surges up higher on his toes, his mouth pressing more insistently as his right hand pulls Sherlock back into him, his left retreating from Sherlock’s hair and sliding around beneath Sherlock’s jaw to swipe his thumb in quieting arcs over Sherlock’s cheek.

Their breathing grows louder, their movements more urgent. The rushing rise of temperature between the length of their bodies creates a pleasant humidity, as now quite thoroughly-heated fingers explore inside clothing, fingernails leaving tracks and tearing shivers across landscapes of pliant skin.

Rejoicing in Sherlock’s enthusiastic reciprocity, John feels the exhilaration of success and begins to stand-down his own onslaught, softening his touches and calming his kisses to a more peaceful pace. They draw back from one another slowly, their hands still clinging to each other lightly. Understanding at long last reached, John would very much like to move the proceedings upstairs for a proper tête-à-tête.

Seemingly reading his mind, Sherlock arches an eyebrow and smirks. “Upstairs?” he taunts, which might be believably cocky were it not for his flushed complexion and mussed hair.

John smiles and shifts sideways, making room on the stairs. “Lead the way.”

With cool nonchalance, Sherlock retrieves his coat and scarf from the floor, grinning in none-too-subtle satisfaction as he squeezes past John, clearly pleased with the reversal of their positions as he takes command of their ascent.

But John unleashes a grin of his own, tilts his head and raises his eyes to survey Sherlock’s form in motion, the view of his conquest stretched out above him.

He’s got Sherlock right where he wants him.

 

 

 


End file.
